The Cocoa Conspiracy

by Andrea Penrose

  They worked their way methodically through the papers, taking care to leave no signs of their snooping. No purloined dispatches, no copied correspondence was in the pile, and the locked drawer yielded only a few small banknotes.

  “Mr. Kydd seems to lead an exemplary life,” observed the surgeon, after carefully readjusting the angles of the pens on the blotter.

  Saybrook made no answer. He was already circling the table, his gaze intent on the bookshelves.

  “See something, laddie?”

  No answer.

  “Hmmm.” Henning joined him in studying the spines. “The expected assortment of French philosophers . . . political theorists . . . American revolutionaries . . . well, well, well. What have we here.”

  He pulled out a slim volume and thumbed to the title page. “Pride and Prejudice, a novel in three volumes by the author of Sense and Sensibility.” A fleeting grin. “I wouldn’t have expected our friend to have a taste for such vulgar reading.”

  “Actually, Arianna thinks it a most engaging book,” murmured the earl. “As do I.”

  “I confess, I enjoyed it immensely too.” Henning flipped through the rest of the pages and then slid it back into its place. “What do you suggest? Shall we search through all of them to see if anything is hidden within the leaves or bindings ?”

  Saybrook continued to stare thoughtfully at the shelves. “We don’t have time for a thorough examination of them all. We shall have to make an educated guess . . .”

  Tap, tap, tap. He ran his fingers along a row of leather-bound spines. Pausing, he took down a book.

  “Alasdair MacMhaighstir Alasdair,” read Henning as Saybrook made a search through the pages. “The Clan-ranald Bard is perhaps the most famous of our Gaelic poets.”

  Tap, tap, tap. The earl’s next choice was a volume by William Dunbar.

  “Auch, I see your logic,” said the surgeon. He plucked a worn edition of Robert Burns poetry from the center of the top shelf. “Hmmph. Nothing tucked away in here.”

  “No, but let us see what we have here.” Reaching into the recess, Saybrook retrieved a small chamois bag that was wedged in behind the Burns book. Untying the drawstring, he carefully emptied the contents into his palm.

  A silver badge.

  “There are some papers as well,” he said, handing the bag to Henning. “Have a look.”

  The surgeon fished out several crudely printed pamphlets. “They are in Gaelic.” He took a moment to read them over. “The usual blather—arise ye Celtic warriors. Now is the time to seize your freedom.” His mouth pinched to a grimace. “Both are signed ‘the Dragons of St. Andrew.’ Which is a secret society much favored by the more radical-thinking university students.”

  “Bring the light closer, Baz.” Saybrook ran a fingertip over the silver badge, tracing the carved details. “An odd sort of Celtic cross . . .”

  “Look closely,” said the surgeon. “It’s fashioned from a claymore—a traditional Highland sword.” He slashed a finger across his throat. “Which is designed for naught but war and killing.”

  “An Italian poniard would be a more appropriate weapon for Kydd, given his current propensity for stabbing his friends in the back.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t see himself as a duplicitous monster, but rather as a noble patriot.” Henning’s scarred knuckles tightened on the lanthorn. “ ‘Ah, freedom is a noble thing!’ ” he read from the radical pamphlet. “ ‘Freedom all solace to man gives’ . . .” Looking up, he sighed. “That John Barbour poem is inscribed on the stone marking where Robert the Bruce’s heart is buried.”

  “I fear your countryman is as naive as he is idealistic. Treachery is a dirty business, no matter how poetically it is phrased. But no doubt he would march happily to the gallows, thinking himself a martyr to a glorious cause, rather than a dupe to a clever demagogue.”

  Henning shook his head. “Daft bugger, to keep such incriminating stuff in his own rooms.”

  Taking a pencil and small notebook from his coat pocket, Saybrook quickly made a detailed sketch of the badge. “Let me refold the pamphlets and put everything back in its place,” he said, after tucking the two other items inside the bag.

  The rough newsprint crackled in reply.

  Saybrook fixed his friend with a searching look. “Baz, I know your feelings on democracy and the rights of every man, but this Dragons of St. Andrew Society is dangerous. Preaching treason and armed rebellion will only result in the deaths of many young Scotsmen, whose intellect and passion could be put to far more effective political use.”

  The surgeon responded by reciting a few stanzas from a Robert Burns sonnet.

  Undaunted, the earl pressed on. “We need to know specifics—the ringleader’s identity, and whether, as I suspect, he is working with any foreigners. I would handle it through my own channels, but you know how clannish the Scots are. An outsider hasn’t a prayer of getting answers to any questions.”

  “Auch, I know that,” said Henning unhappily. “I’ll send another messenger north. My cousin is in a position to know this sort of information, and he’ll trust that I’m asking for a good reason.” His voice tightened a notch. “Lies, manipulations, betrayals—why is it that I feel as slimy as Kydd?”

  “Don’t,” counseled Saybrook. “There is a right way and a wrong way to achieve worthy goals.”

  “Right and wrong,” growled the surgeon. “Is what we do for the higher good? God knows.” An oath rumbled under his breath. “I bloody well don’t.”

  “I don’t claim to be a deity, Baz. But I’ve made a choice and can live with it. Can you?”

  Henning swore another oath. “Would that the damnable matter didn’t cut so close to home. I have friends and family who wuddna agree with what I’m doing—especially my young nephew, who’s just begun his university studies. But ye know my sentiments on violence, so I really don’t have a choice, do I, laddie?”

  “We all have choices, and most of the time they are damnably difficult ones.”

  Henning grunted and turned for the bedchamber. “Let us finish our search, in case Kydd chooses to leave the party early.”

  Repressing a flutter of nerves, Arianna ascended the stairs and entered the drawing room. Steady, steady. Deception was in her blood, she reminded herself. It would soon uncoil and come to life, like a sleeping serpent suddenly roused by the heat of a freshly kindled flame.

  “Lady Saybrook, I appreciate your coming, despite Sandro’s indisposition.” Ever the attentive host, Mellon quickly approached and bowed politely over her hand. “I hope that his war wound is not giving him trouble?”

  “No, no, it’s simply a stomach discomfort,” she replied. “I expect him to be fully recovered by morning.”

  “Perhaps you ought to reconsider traveling to Vienna,” he suggested softly. “The trip will be a long, grueling one, and the city itself will be aswirl in the pomp and pageantry of the Peace Conference.”

  Meaning that I will stick out like a square peg trying to squeeze into a round hole?

  Keeping her thoughts to herself, Arianna responded with a smile. “Sandro is quite set on seeing the Emperor’s private library. You know how serious he is about his work.”

  “Ah, yes—his chocolate book.” Mellon looked faintly bemused. “I was, of course, happy that the subject provided him with sustenance during the dark days of his recovery.” Saybrook had, for a time, sunk into a state of deep melancholy after being wounded in the Peninsular War. Chocolate had helped wean him from a dependence on opium.

  “But perhaps he ought not push himself too hard,” he continued, after a fraction of a pause. “Given all he—and you—have been through in the past year, it might be wise to wait until things are calmer on the Continent before undertaking such a journey.”

  A tactful suggestion—but then, Charles Mellon was ever the consummate diplomat.

  She decided to respond to his counsel with a slight challenge. “That is sage advice, sir. But you know that beneath his outward stoicis
m, Sandro is a man of deep feelings. He is not really happy unless he is fully engaged in a pursuit that engages his passions.”

  The corners of Mellon’s mouth quirked upward for an instant. “It appears that you understand my nephew well.”

  “It may not seem so on the surface, but the earl and I have much in common.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “So I am learning.”

  Their private exchange was interrupted by the arrival of several Prussian diplomats.

  “Please excuse me,” murmured Mellon.

  “Of course. I shall find Nora and pay my respects.” Moving away, Arianna sought out Mellon’s wife, who welcomed her with a warm hug.

  “Arianna, how delightful to see you!” Unlike her husband, Eleanor Mellon had never kept her niece-by-marriage at arm’s length. “Do come meet some of the other guests.”

  It was some time before Arianna could disengage herself from the round of greetings and seek a moment alone in one of the shadowed alcoves of the drawing room. The muted clink of crystal punctuated the soft serenade of a string quartet. Sipping her champagne, she watched the mingling of the different delegations weaving an intricate web across the polished parquet.

  Chance or design? The question of how to interpret the pattern was one that would only grow more pressing in the coming days.

  Narrowing her focus, Arianna began searching the crowd for a glimpse of David Kydd.

  The Scotsman was across the room, half hidden by the leafy fronds of the decorative potted palms that flanked the entrance to the side saloon. He and Mellon were deep in conversation, and as befitted the pairing of mentor and protégé, the younger man was listening attentively.

  A disciple showing deference. Head bowed, expression rapt, Kydd looked convincingly natural, which was no easy task. It took discipline, practice and a certain innate natural talent to perfect the art of deception. And passion. It helped to have some inner fire burning in one’s belly.

  Yes, Kydd was an excellent actor and played his role well, she reflected. He was good at presenting a false face to Society.

  But I wager that I am better.

  Switching skins was something that had, over the years, become second nature to her. She had learned to slip seamlessly into a role—saucy wench, streetwise urchin, temperamental cook, rich widow . . .

  Setting aside her empty glass, she smoothed her silken skirts into place and stepped out from the alcove.

  Mellon looked up at her approach. “Ah, Lady Saybrook, do join us. I am sure that Mr. Kydd would far rather converse with a lovely lady than with me.”

  Arianna gave a light laugh. “La, I fear you have placed the poor man in a very awkward position. Whether he says yea or nay, he is forced to offend one of us.”

  “It’s good practice for a diplomat,” answered Mellon with a smile.

  “Ah, but why must I choose?” said Kydd lightly. “To have both Beauty and Wisdom by my side is the best of both worlds.”

  “I think Mr. Kydd is quite ready for the challenges of Vienna,” Arianna said. “The Peace Conference promises to be an exciting opportunity for any aspiring diplomat, Mr. Kydd. Are you looking forward to being part of the delegation ?”

  “Very much so, Lady Saybrook,” replied the Scotsman. “The whole of Europe is to be redrawn and the decisions made will have a lasting effect on world peace. As Mr. Mellon has kindly pointed out, through hard work and diligence, an individual has a real chance to influence the future and write a new chapter of history.”

  With ink or blood? The decoded letter seemed a clear enough answer of his intentions.

  “Well said, lad. It will be a challenge,” responded Mellon. “But I have great confidence in your ability to think on your feet.”

  What a pity that Sandro and I intend to knock him on his arse.

  “Speaking of which, I see that Major Lowell is about to kick up a dust with Rochemont, so I had better go intervene.” He made a face. “Why is it that military men—my nephew excepted—have so little tact?”

  “Because rather than mincing around with words, as we do, they are used to slashing their opponents with sabers,” suggested Kydd, a glint of humor flashing in his blue eyes.

  “Sharp lad,” said Mellon, giving a quick nod of approval, rather like a proud papa, before moving away to forestall any explosions of temper.

  Arianna felt a sudden, searing flare of anger rise up in her gorge, knowing how hurt and disappointed Mellon would be when the treachery of his protégé came to light. But she hid its heat behind a cool smile.

  “What a great compliment that the Foreign Office has placed such trust in you. But then, Charles cannot speak highly enough of your abilities.”

  A breath of air stirred the palm fronds, the soft rustling sending a shiver of bladelike shadows ghosting over his face. Black and white, blurring to an infinite range of grays.

  The leaves stilled, and as he turned into the glow of the nearby wall sconce, the candlelight gilded the choirboy curl of his smile. “I shall do all I can to justify Mr. Mellon’s confidence in me.”

  Oh, yes, he was good. The flickering flames added to the illusion, creating a soft, shimmering halo behind his rose gold hair.

  A part of her could almost admire his brazen lies. She knew what it was like to have one’s head and heart in thrall to an abstract idea. In her case, it had been the desire for revenge. Thank God that Saybrook had helped her see the folly of that obsession before it had destroyed her.

  “As I said, he has the utmost faith in you,” replied Arianna. Looking up through her lashes, she watched for any subtle signs of guilt in his expression.

  Kydd’s smile stretched wider. “I appreciate your telling me that, Lady Saybrook.”

  His response reminded her of her real purpose in seeking him out. Enough of my own mordant musings. She was here to flirt. To flatter. To seduce a traitor into betraying his own dangerous secrets.

  “But of course.” A flutter of lashes. “I think you know how much I admire your intellect.”

  The pulse point at his throat quickened, the telltale twitch barely visible beneath the starched folds of his cravat. “There aren’t many ladies who are interested in talking about ideas.”

  “There aren’t many men who can make abstract theories and complex philosophies come alive.” Arianna lowered her voice to a husky murmur. “Unlike so many others here, you never are dull or dry.”

  A faint flush of color ridged his cheekbones. “I’m honored that you think so.”

  “Enough so to tell me some of the things you hope to accomplish?” she asked.

  “With pleasure, Lady Saybrook.”

  “Excellent. And be assured that I look forward to pursuing such subjects with you in Vienna.”

  As intended, the statement took Kydd by surprise. “You are coming to the Conference?”

  “Not precisely.” Arianna signaled to one of the footmen for two glasses of champagne. “Saybrook is anxious to study the Emperor of Austria’s collection of rare botanical books, and a fellow scholar has arranged an invitation. I daresay he will spend most of his time in the library. But I hope to take in the sights of the city. There is, you know, an old adage about all work and no play . . .”

  She paused to draw in a mouthful of the sparkling wine. “I do hope that your schedule will permit you to attend a good many of the festivities. Saybrook often finds his chocolate books more interesting than people.”

  “Parties are, of course, part of diplomacy,” said Kydd slowly. “And the ones planned for the Conference are expected to be sumptuous beyond imagination.”

  She let a gurgle of laughter well up in her throat. “Oh, but I have a very wild imagination.”

  He smiled and raised his crystal flute in salute. “A toast to those who dare to let their minds soar free of constraint.”

  No matter the danger of flying too close to the sun? The glorious wax-and-feather wings of idealism were no match for such heat and fire. Smoke and ashes. The fall would not be pretty.
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  “As you said earlier, the Conference offers a unique opportunity to shape history. I take it you have some ideas of your own on how to rebuild a new Europe, based on modern ideals,” prompted Arianna.

  Kydd responded carefully. “I am only a junior assistant to Castlereagh, but I hope to influence some of his positions.”

  He was no fool. It would be a prolonged game of cat and mouse, and for the moment, she was content to do naught but purr. Only later would the time be right to unsheathe her claws.

  “Please, I’m interested in hearing what you think is important.” In her previous life, she had learned that knowing an opponent’s hopes and his dreams was a powerful weapon. One that could be wielded to great advantage.

  Her request drew a chuffed laugh. “Only if you agree to stop me if I start to bore you.”

  Arianna crossed her heart. “You have my solemn promise.”

  “Well, in that case, we must be wary of Russia . . .”

  12

  From Lady Arianna’s Chocolate Notebooks

  Chocolate Coconut Cake

  3 cups sugar

  1¾ cups unsalted butter, softened

  2½ teaspoons vanilla extract

  8 large egg yolks

  1 12-oz. can evaporated milk

  1½ cups roughly chopped pecans

  1 7-oz. package sweetened shredded coconut

  4 oz. German’s Sweet Chocolate, chopped

  2 oz. unsweetened chocolate, chopped

  ½ cup boiling water

  2 cups flour

  1 teaspoon baking soda

  ¼ teaspoon kosher salt

  1 cup buttermilk

  4 large egg whites

  1. Combine 1½ cups sugar, ¾ cup butter, 1½ tsp. vanilla, 4 egg yolks, and evaporated milk in a 2-qt. pan over medium heat. Bring to a simmer; cook until thick, 12 minutes. Strain through a sieve into a bowl; stir in pecans and coconut; chill frosting until firm.

  2. Heat oven to 350˚. Grease three 9-inch round cake pans with butter; line bottoms with parchment circles. Grease parchment; set aside. Put chocolates into a small bowl; pour in ½ cup boiling water ; let sit for 1 minute. Stir until smooth; set aside. In another bowl, whisk flour, baking soda, and salt; set aside.